Father Figure
by Basilby
Summary: As the new first years come into Hogwarts, Severus Snape sees something familiar about Hermione. She reminds him of someone he met 12 years ago. Could Hermione be ...


It was the time he had dreaded. The day where his own heart would be broken all over again, when Lily's son would be walking into the Great Hall and Sorted. And the boy wouldn't have been his parents' child if he didn't end up a Gryffindor. Severus Snape braced himself as the doors to the Great Hall flew open, and Minerva led the children in. There, halfway down the group, that _had_ to be him, _had _to be James's son. The face, the hair - everything smelled of the spoiled brat who had made his own school days a misery. And the eyes - as he had been told, the eyes were hers. Lily's.

Severus dragged his own eyes away, unable to bear the sight. He had seven long years to go; he could wait for this punishment.

But then...

He glanced along the lines of First Years, then snapped back to one girl in particular. Bright-eyed, bushy-haired, she walked in staring around her as if this was everything she had ever expected. Her clothes under the robes were more Muggle than Wizard, but her face ... it looked like someone he had known a long time ago, a woman he had known when he was barely out of Hogwarts himself. The girl must have felt his stare, and lifted her own eyes to meet his, and Severus had to look down at his plate in a hurry to avoid making a spectacle.

Because it couldn't be. _Could it?_ It had been too long.

* * *

><p>Sheffield in winter at the very end of 1978 was bitter. Cold. The sleet soaked through the thin and worn coat Severus Snape clutched around himself as he stumbled down the road.<p>

He'd started in Glasgow, hauling barrels of beer out of a grimy pub cellar for a week for Hogmany parties. There was that cheap bus down to Carlisle and a night or two washing plates in a greasy spoon so scummy even the rats wouldn't eat there. He'd caught a lift with a couple of guys in an old VW Beetle as far as Blackburn. The lift was supposed to be to Birmingham, but they stopped at a grotty motorway stop. Severus had gone to the loo while they were filling the car, but when he came out they were gone, and the owner had interrogated him for ages about who was going to pay for the petrol. Severus was speechless, mainly because his bag with his other pair of jeans and spare t-shirt was in the car, and it was only his furious reaction that convinced the owner that he was innocent of the fraud. The owner saw an opportunity and got three days worth of work out of the skinny teenager before Severus got sick of being sworn at and grabbed a lift with a truckie who was heading south. That went all right until they were close to Sheffield and the truck driver suggested a payment for the lift that didn't involve cash – as they slowed to turn a roundabout Severus leapt out the door and rolled down the small slope to end up in a pile of snow at the bottom. The truckie swore and drove on, uncaring.

Limping into town, Severus thanked Merlin that he had no broken bones, just a few bruises, and still had his virtue, such as it was. He wished he didn't. He wished he'd said something, done something, told Lily how he really felt about her, but when he heard she was married to that git of a Potter, he'd snapped. And run. Run out of Hogwarts, where he'd been visiting Slughorn (and hoping to get a job), headed for the Muggle world, and hadn't wanted anything to do with Wizards or Witches or …

And then he'd found himself in the middle of Scotland in the middle of bloody winter, without money or more than one change of very worn clothes. And now even that was gone.

He staggered down the Pennistone Road, and tried to ignore the wet misery his thin coat was causing. One simple warming spell, a few incantations – but no, he wouldn't go that way again. He was done with magic. He'd find a place in this town and make something of himself. He knew the area – or at least something like it. His own town had been like this. Grotty. Poor. Full of abandonned shops and broken chairs on the kerb and broken bottles in the ditches. He knew how to fit in, and he knew that within a month he'd have an accent like the locals and no-one would ever know.

And it wasn't as if anyone would ever look for him.

He wasn't watching where he was walking by now, the cold drawing him into himself, and he stumbled over a raised cobblestone and fell into a couple who were arguing outside a pub. Next thing he was being held by the collar and punched _hard_ by the man, while his companion was screaming for him to _stop_ _hitting the poor thing_ …

And then it all went black.

* * *

><p>Severus woke to a pounding headache, a very sore nose and the sound of water running. He opened his eyes cautiously, the light near him dim enough not to make the headache worse. But the place …<p>

He was in a small bedroom, with peeling paint and a bed with scratchy blankets and a pillow that smelled as if the rubber was about to grow its own legs and walk out of there. Severus grabbed the pillow and threw it away from him but it was too late – he sneezed loudly and his head felt as if it would fall off. He grabbed his head in his hands, and moaned loudly, uncaring that anyone would hear him.

He felt rather than saw someone sit on a chair beside the bed, and a warm around went around him as a glass of something was put in front of him.

"Drink. It will help the pain."

He sipped. It was bitter, whatever it was, like willow bark, but he drank it anyway and the throbbing slowly subsided to something bearable. The light grew brighter, and he realised it had been shaded with an teatowel thrown over a shocking pink plastic shade. The person beside him emerged from the shadows; a woman close to his own age with a flicked-back fringe and long legs in a short dress. She smiled hesitantly, and offered a glass of plain water.

"Any better?"

He ignored the question, his level of tolerance being somewhere around the zero mark. "Where the fuck am I?"

He saw her flinch, and the smile died off. "You were unconscious, with no identification, and I didn't know what else to do. You're in my flat."

Severus just stared at her, nothing sensible coming to his mind which was still having trouble thinking clearly. She jumped up, the noise of her heels on the floor sending another jab of pain through his head.

"I'll make tea. You _do_ drink tea, don't you?"

He grunted, and she took this as a positive and went to fill the kettle. He took the five minutes it took for the water boil to look around the flat – and realised that the word "flat" was a huge exaggeration. It was one room, a sink and hotplate at one end making up the kitchen, while a battered table in the centre was obviously the study, the dining room and the box room. By a tiny electric radiator in the corner was a small wooden clothes horse with sodden black clothes draped over it in an optimistic attempt to dry them. There wasn't even a separate bathroom – the facilities (such as they were) were a battered bath and a toilet behind a worn plastic curtain. He could see the pedestal of the toilet under the curtain, which didn't quite make it to the floor.

And then his host came back, a chipped mug in her hand, steaming and scented like heaven.

'Sorry, there's no milk. But sugar should be good for you."

Severus sat up carefully, and took the mug, feeling the heat working its way through the thick china. She sat back on the chair and watched as he sipped the tea, and she seemed to realise when the warmth and the taste made him a little more human.

"I'm Jean. This is my place."

She was short, but well rounded, with bright sparkles in her eyes that came and went like the glow in a fireplace. Her hair seemed to dance in the slight draught that wafted through the room, and although her clothes had obviously come from a second-hand bin somewhere, she'd done things with them, with scarves and ribbons, to make them interesting. Bohemian.

"Why here, though. Why did you bring me here?"

She blushed and bit her lip. "We didn't want to call an ambulance. Bill's been in trouble a few times now, and the police would have locked him up in a trice. And …"

"Bill? The one who hit me?"

"He didn't mean to."

_"HE FUCKING WELL DID!"_ Severus was surprised at how angry he was, especially now that he had someone he could be angry at – or about. She cringed and looked away from him, and he recognised the reaction. His mother had done that when his father had yelled at her. He could tell Jean was expecting a blow, but to his surprise instead she thought for a moment and nodded.

"You're right. He did. He's a brute and a bastard and I should have left him months ago. That's why we were arguing last night – I told him I'd had it and I needed to get on with my studies and finish my degree." She took a deep breath and looked back at him. "And he only ever wants me around when it suits him, and he borrows my money – not that I have much – and he h... he's not very nice. So I told him it was over. And then you stumbled into him and I could tell it was an accident. But he hit you. Twice. And then he dropped you in the snow and legged it, and Ted the barman helped me carry you up here."

She smiled, and her whole face lit up and was suddenly beautiful. "But I still don't know who you are."

"Severus."

"That's an unusual name."

"I was named for a Roman Lawyer. Or a saint or something. My grandmam was Catholic." He'd never told anyone that, but she seemed amused by the explanation.

"Lucky you. Although I bet you got teased when you were younger."

"A bit." He closed his eyes in pain, and the memory of being enchanted upside down and his underwear being visible to the whole student body flashed in front of him.

She leaned over and hugged him, and then was sitting back before he could react. "I wanted an unusual name. I _hated_ this name. Wanted to be something exotic. If I have a daughter I want to call her something fancy like 'Perdita' or 'Beatrice'."

The room was getting darker, and Severus realised he must have been asleep for most of the day. "I should leave."

"Where would you go?"

He hesitated, and she nodded. "You don't have anywhere, do you?" He scowled at her, but she continued. "You have 27½ pence, a ragged handkerchief and wallet with no identification at all. Your clothes are ripped and almost falling apart, and you smell like you've been living in them for a week. You're not from around here, although you're not that far from your home. And you're on the run from somewhere." His scowl went from _annoyed_ to _death glare_ but she just stared back at him. "And you talk in your sleep. Whoever Lily is, she deserves a slap."

"_Don't you talk about her like that!_"

Jean got up and took his now-empty mug back to the sink. "Anyway, your jeans aren't fit to be worn again, and it's New Year's Eve. I'd go and buy you a pair at the Oxfam shop, but they won't be open again until the day after tomorrow. So, like it or not, you're stuck here."

Then she turned back to him. "And I'd like my bed back tonight please. That couch is hell."


End file.
